A Time to Speak

I turn my back on them and face those circled behind me. “The Council found Jude in the West. Jude gave them his Clock invention information, but I think . . . I think he changed the Clocks—”

  Where is Solomon? He would have so many more answers!

  “—changed them so they can be overridden . . . by us.”

  How much of this is fact and how much is speculation? Jude gave the assassin the Clock information to save my life, but there had to be something else to it—and Dusten’s death confirms that. Jude wouldn’t sacrifice the lives of thousands of Radicals all for me.

  Jude and Dusten have proven that there’s something faulty in the Clocks.

  “Overridden?” Cap lowers himself onto a chunk of ice at the edge of the circle, holding the single blanket tight around his shoulders. “So any of us could die at any moment? Even if we had a Clock once? Or is it just the new Clocks?”

  “I don’t have all the answers. But I can tell you this: life isn’t about the day we die. Our focus should be on right now.”

  “Shut up.” He throws a chunk of ice at me. “You act so above us, as if you’re exempt from death.”

  I square my shoulders. “I’m not exempt. I could die any minute, but I’ve finally learned how to live. And it has nothing to do with knowledge of Numbers or death.”

  That’s as far as I get before people ignore me completely. The foundations of their lives rest on the concept of Clocks. I’m ripping that foundation to unrecognizable pieces. I can’t expect them to absorb what I’m saying just like that.

  The last time I crossed the Wall, I thought I’d die, but I didn’t. God wanted me to survive for something more. How can I fear death now? Mine or my people’s? I must be strong. I must have faith.

  “We are all going to die!” Cap buries his head in his arms. Frenchie sinks to her knees and a few others slump to the ground.

  “He can’t be dead.” Madame nudges Dusten with his boot. “She’s wrong.”

  Mother’s face is in her hands. This visual overwhelms my control. I turn on my heel and stride toward the Wall. I push through the people as easily as parting curtains.

  Their worlds are crashing, and I’m the last one standing.

  It’s lonely.

  I find myself at the little infirmary snow hut. Kaphtor lies alone with no blanket. The rest of the healing hut is filled with unconscious invalids. Some no longer look alive. A physician examines someone at the other end of the hut. I stand over Kaphtor for a moment. Two Kaphtors exist in my mind—the one who sentenced me to the Wall and squeezed my arm so hard it left bruises and then the Kaphtor who took the chisel from my hand, hacked at the rope that would save everyone’s lives, and took a bullet for it.

  Yet the people hate him because of the backward E on his left temple. Unfamiliar tenderness brushes my heart. I crouch down and rest my palm on his forehead. My unbandaged fingertips touch his skin.

  God, please heal Kaphtor. Keep him alive. I’m finally getting to see his goodness and his character. Raise him up to change hearts for You. Please . . . help us survive.

  I lean back and stare at him for a moment. If only I had another coat with which to cover him. For now, I’ll have to trust that God will protect him.

  A deafening crash shakes the snow hut. I lurch outside as another snow chunk falls from the Wall. The spiky ice caked to the stone Wall looks as firm as usual . . . except for a dark spot halfway up the Wall, just past the Opening.

  Climbing higher, with the broken escape rope looped around his body, is Solomon. He clings with both hands to an ice pick lodged in the Wall and scrabbles for a foothold.

  “Solomon!” I clap my hand over my mouth as his name pops out.

  He’s trying to escape. Alone. I’m sure he has a plan to come back for the rest of us—for me—but . . . he left Dusten. And now he’s climbing a thousand-foot Wall with a single ice pick.

  He could lose his footing and die, or get over the Wall and die, or encounter Enforcers and die. But he didn’t bother letting me know.

  Are Enforcers seeing him do this right now? Will they show up and shoot him off the Wall?

  Solomon wedges his feet in some of the ice and continues the climb. It’s slow going, and I refuse to watch. I look at the ground and see a splash of blood. Did Solomon injure himself? A glint catches my eye. I squat to look closer. A small square rests among the blood and snow, so tiny I’m surprised my eye caught it. A tracker chip. Solomon’s.

  If he took his out, then I’m taking mine out too. I slip it from the rotten-smelling bandage on my upper left arm and throw it on the ground to join his.

  “What’s he doing?” Cap stands behind me with one arm draped over Harman’s shoulders.

  I ignore him and gesture to the blanket around Cap’s shoulders. “Give that back to Kaphtor. He’ll get hypothermia without it.”

  “So what?”

  A vindictive part of me rejoices at Cap’s broken leg. “You want to be responsible for the death of the man who helped save your life?”

  “He won’t die—he has a long Clock. And he didn’t save my life.”

  “He took a bullet to get that rope for us to climb down.”

  Cap sniffs. “Then it’s his fault I fell and broke my leg, ’cause of that dumb rope.”

  Harman takes the blanket off Cap’s shoulders and tosses it to me. Without Harman’s support, Cap teeters on his good leg and gropes for a hold. He snatches Harman’s shoulder and grimaces. “That was rude. Now help me lie down.”

  I lay the blanket over Kaphtor, then stride away from them, my chest heaving with a brew of emotions. Why do I care about those no one else cares about? I care about Radicals—the government hates them. I care about Solomon and Kaphtor—all my Radicals hate them. Does anyone care about me? Does anyone see that I care?

  I hover around the wounded for a while, not allowing myself to watch Solomon climb. When I finally look again, he’s almost to the top of the Wall. I hold back the temptation of relief. I cannot hope yet. Not until he is safe. What is his plan?

  Escape?

  Mother steps up beside me. “He is brave. And he is a fool.”

  “A brave fool,” I mutter. “He and Jude are so similar in completely different ways.”

  She shakes her head. “Parvin, let me change your hand bandage. It looks like you bled through.”

  The bandage is dark. “It’s dried now. None of that blood is new.”

  “We should change it anyway.”

  “All right.”

  Mother takes my hand and picks at the knotted bandage. “I read about what happened during your first trip through the Wall. I know it was hard, but you were strong. Now you must be strong for everyone.”

  It wasn’t my strength—can’t she see? “I can’t be strong, Mother. They all hate me.”

  She shakes her head. “They hate you because they are not sure where else to direct their hate yet.”

  I laugh through the tightness in my chest. “So . . . I’m right. They hate me.”

  She’s silent. So much for the pep talk. “I’m afraid, Parvin.”

  “No you’re not.” I respond without thinking. “You’re never afraid.”

  She peels layer after layer of bandage from the crusted blood. “What does Dusten’s death mean?” She meets my eyes.

  Why does everyone keep asking me this? “It means we can’t put our faith in the Clocks.”

  “But how did he override his Numbers? Is it only Dusten’s Clock or is it the new Clocks that the government gives out? It must not have been his Clock.”

  “It was his. It had his name on it. I don’t have all the answers, but you need to start pushing yourself to believe that maybe the Clocks aren’t always right.”

  She returns to my hand wound. The conversation is over. I hope she’s pondering what I said instead of dismissing it.

  H
er sharp intake of breath cuts into my thoughts.

  I look down–and jerk my hand from her grasp.

  “What . . . happened?” Mother’s voice is hushed.

  I lift my hand, turning it in front of my eyes. Aside from mild redness, the skin on my palm is smooth, fresh, and completely healed.

  25

  I flex my fingers and rotate my wrist. “My hand is . . . new.”

  “How?” Mother is pale. “Did Solomon put something special on it?”

  I shake my head. No salve, no paste, no medicine. Is this a miracle? Did God heal my hand because I wounded it through praying? I’d like that.

  I tap my palm. “It doesn’t hurt at all.”

  Mother takes a step back. “I . . . I’ll go scrub this bandage with snow. You don’t need it anymore.” But she doesn’t leave. She doesn’t take her eyes off my hand.

  “It’s okay, Mother. It’s just . . . healed. Maybe God did it.” It feels like a normal hand, chilling in the exposed air, begging to be hidden in a warm pocket.

  What in time’s name happened?

  My mind cartwheels through options. Did God heal it? Did Solomon do something to it when he wrapped it? Or . . . “Mother! It’s the medibot.”

  The tense lines in her face relax. “From Skelley Chase?”

  “It must be.” I liked the miracle idea better. Then again, why can’t God use a medibot for a miracle?

  She exhales and nods. “Good.”

  Something falls from the Wall with a thunk. I jump and suppress a scream. It’s not Solomon. He is at the top and threw the rope so it hangs down the Wall. It seems like multiple ropes are tied together.

  A dot of sound comes from above. I can’t make out Solomon’s words, but he’s moving. Waving? Something. “Does he want me to climb?”

  Mother shakes her head. “I don’t know. That doesn’t seem like him—he wouldn’t put you in danger.”

  He’s on a rescue mission, to save the people. I won’t be left behind. “I’m going to climb. I’m going to help him.”

  “Parvin.”

  I have a new hand. He can’t stop me. The people are looking to me to rescue them and I have the most Clock knowledge here. Besides, the Council didn’t want me dead. If we get over the Wall to the Enforcers in the station, maybe I can use that as leverage.

  “I’m going.” I drop my pack on the ground, but keep my sentra in my pocket.

  “How will you climb? This is careless.”

  I grab the rope with my good hand and wrap my leg in the slack curled on the ground. “Tell the people what Solomon and I are doing.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “We’re going to get everyone out of here.” I pull myself up with my arm and scoot my feet up the rope. They’re wrapped tight enough that, if I clench the rope between them, I have enough leverage to push myself up a few inches at a time.

  “Parvin!” Mother peers up at me, only a foot or two below my own face. She holds out her coat. It takes me a full minute of maneuvering to get my arms through.

  She slips two potatoes into the coat pockets and puts a glove on my right hand. “Come back to me.”

  “I will.” Whether dead or alive, though, I’m not sure.

  I continue my climb, using my elbows to keep me from scraping the snow-sharded Wall as much as possible. My arms tremble and, after the first ten minutes I realize this won’t work.

  Solomon keeps shouting something, but I can’t make it out. Maybe he’s trying to say he doesn’t want me to come with him.

  Sweat slips down my temple. Good. Warmth. Body heat. I lodge myself in the rope to rest. I tuck my hand into Mother’s coat sleeve, but that doesn’t stop the freezing. It can barely grip the rope as it is.

  A glance up shows the Wall top no closer than before. I glance down and groan. I’m barely ten yards high. I’ll never make it to the top at this rate with my limited stamina and one hand.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have been so rash.

  The rope jerks and I clench my fingers around it. Is it breaking? It jerks again and I’m lifted a foot. Then again. Then again.

  Solomon’s hoisting me up.

  What is he thinking? He can’t possibly keep this going. What if he drops me? I grip the rope tighter, muscles tense against the anticipated fall. But he doesn’t drop me. Higher and higher I go. After several long minutes, the rope returns to a resting state. He must have tied it off somehow.

  I look down. Now it’s too late to go back.

  My breath quickens and I look away. A group of people clumps beneath me, staring up. No one can reach the rope now that Solomon’s gathered some of it.

  “They’re escaping without us!” Oh Cap, why is he so suspicious and skeptical?

  “No, we’re not!” My yell is futile. Even if they can hear me, they won’t believe me. I hope Mother’s standing up for us.

  I resume my awkward scoot-climb. It’s colder the higher I get. Windy. And clouds block the sun. Ice from the Wall scrapes my arms, my chest, my face. I can’t do this. My arm trembles and the glove on my right hand bunches and messes with my grip. I yank it off with my teeth and let it drop. My stump is covered in the tied-off sleeve of Mother’s coat. I wrap my arm around the rope, bringing my hand to my mouth, where I breathe on it.

  The Opening is directly to my left. I’m halfway to the top. If only we could get through the Opening door somehow. A black orb sticks out of the archway by the door. A camera? Does it see me?

  Up again I climb, ignoring the numbness. My feet grow weak and I need to switch them so one isn’t taking the majority of my weight. I can’t. I’m too high. I’m too vulnerable.

  The ground sways in my blurred vision. It’s so far.

  This was foolish.

  The rope jerks again as Solomon hauls me. This time I hold on and close my eyes. I must trust him, just as I ask the people to trust me.

  Despite his actions regarding Dusten, I need Solomon. I need to see him atop this Wall, safe and solid. I need to know his plans. I mustn’t allow the strain of deaths and decimated hopes to create anger.

  My face scrapes against the ice. This pattern repeats. I inch up while my muscles still work, then Solomon hauls me while his work. Back and forth. Teamwork. The wind buffets me against the side of the stone, but I remain as still as possible while he pulls.

  My right hand is icy, my fingertips dotted with white. Frostbite. Up one more foot. Another. My arm trembles. I’m so cold.

  “Up you go.”

  My eyes fly open and there’s Solomon a few feet above me, bending over the Wall edge and drenched in sweat. I scoot the last several feet until his outstretched hand is within reach. I stretch my left arm and his fingers wrap around my stump.

  He hauls me over the edge, icicles scrape my stomach. I lie face-down for a moment. Wind howls, erasing any warmth I had from expended energy.

  “I told you not to climb up.” He moves hair away from my face. Does he mean when he called down at me from one thousand feet high?

  My breath returns and I sit up, wrapping my right hand in the hem of Mother’s coat.

  “Here.” He pulls my hand back out, sandwiches it between his two, and blows on my fingers. A chill encompasses me, but I’m warm for a moment. Emotionally, at least.

  He doesn’t release my hand, but frowns at it. “It’s . . . healed.”

  “The m-m-medibot Skelley put in me must have f-f-fixed it.” I slip it out of his grasp.

  The top of the Wall is a bumpy white snow desert, stretching beyond us into misty cloud. Grains of snow swirl and spin with each blast of wind. Beside me, Solomon’s ice pick is lodged in the top of the Wall with the rope knotted around it. It doesn’t look sturdy enough to have held my weight.

  “We need to go.” Staying in a crouch, he wiggles the ice pick back and forth until it comes free.


  I don’t see him the same. His features look less soft. I suspect hidden things—hidden emotions and hatred and attitude—behind this man I thought I knew.

  “You left us.” My words come out accusing. “You left us a-a-and Dusten died. Y-you let him die!” Solomon did something I didn’t like . . . and I don’t know how to swallow it.

  He stops fiddling with the ice pick and closes his eyes.

  “You knew what the projected Wall would d-d-do to him. I called for your h-help and y-you left me. I tried to resuscitate him—alone. No response. N-no help. N-nothing.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I needed you.” Tears singe my eyes. They’re warm. I needed him, maybe that’s why I’m so upset. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know what he did. A simple sorry isn’t going to fix anything.

  “Parvin.” He takes my hand and I glance up, not wanting to meet his eyes but needing to hope I’ll see something in them that brings me peace. “Forgive me. Please forgive me for walking away, for ignoring your call, and for not . . . bringing shalom. I have reasons and excuses for my actions, but none of them are right. I . . . messed up and I hurt you. Please forgive me.”

  So that’s what an apology on a golden platter sounds like. His every word is sincere. Desperate. “I n-needed you.” He needs to know. To really understand how deserted I felt. “Why did you leave?”

  He doesn’t meet my eyes. “I was afraid of my own anger. I feel it rise up inside me when people don’t see logic. When someone’s being foolish. I . . . couldn’t stay, or else I would have done something regrettable.”

  Jude had anger issues, too, only he didn’t control them very well. He hit me once—knocked me to the ground. Eventually, I forgave him. Solomon dealt with his anger by . . . running from it. Abandoning us.

  It’s not right, but I can’t hold it against him. “I f-forgive you.”

  I do . . . I think. What exactly is forgiveness? Does that mean I ignore the hurt that still smolders beneath the surface? Or does it mean that I will try to forget it? Until I figure out the exact meaning of forgiveness, I’ll try my hardest to move on and not harbor bitterness. That, at least, is what I know to be right.